220 Days

It’s been 220 days since we stopped living together.
Two hundred and twenty days of waking up alone. Two hundred and twenty days of learning a new routine I never wanted. Two hundred and twenty days of carrying a silence that still doesn’t feel normal.

People say time heals. Maybe it does.

But every day since we moved out has only reinforced what I already knew.

I don’t want this.

Not because I can’t survive it. I have. I go to work. I pay my bills. I show up for my daughter. I keep going.

But surviving something and wanting it are two very different things.

If anything, the distance has made me more certain, not less. It has shown me that what I miss isn’t just the house or the routine. It’s the life we built. The little moments no one else ever saw. The future I thought we were still writing together.

Maybe one day this ache will become something quieter. Maybe one day it won’t be the first thing I feel when I wake up.

Today isn’t that day.

Today, after 220 days, all I know is that every sunrise has quietly repeated the same truth:

I don’t want this.

I miss you so fucking much.